


Misdemeanors

by Quilljoy



Series: Theon as Lord Bolton's ward AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Choking, Consent Issues, F/M, Identity Issues, M/M, Sassy!Theon, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Theon as Lord Bolton's ward AU, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Typical Bolton TWs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Roose Bolton stripped the resistance out of him layer by layer, so that Theon was raw and aching by the time Lord Bolton was done with him, but he was still whole, not broken like the things he’d witnessed downstairs - and it was mercy. The little Lord Bolton afforded, anyway.</i><br/> <br/>A boy like Greyjoy needs a steady hand to keep him in line. Theon resents being raised by the Boltons, but he learns to be grateful, in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misdemeanors

**Author's Note:**

> Hayyyyy fellow flayers! Here I am, finally contributing to the fandom after ages lurking in the Bolton tags of tumblr. I gotta say I love thramsay just as much as the next fangirl, but the canon is so… er… it’s very explicit about it already and I have no idea of what I’d be able to add to it (or to the amazing thramsay fandom - seriously, guys, you think of everything). So I came bearing my humble offering, because hnnng Roose Bolton *cries in despair*. I might or might not have a thing for how detachedly evil he is, and how fascinated I’m by the idea of Theon being raised by the Boltons instead of the Starks, growing up with Domeric, and having worst daddy issues than he already has in canon. One day, hopefully, I’ll turn this one shot into a fully fledged story and have Theon shipped with every single Bolton in existence, ever, and just you wait for me.
> 
> I borrowed Myranda and Violet from D&D because I needed some women in the Dreadfort. Skinner’s also there because he’s got this deliciously creepy vibe with Theon in the show, so, yeah. I’m thinking book canon but those pesky show details worm their way in… (Like Michael McElhatton. Yeahh… Please, imagine Michael McElhatton at your leisure.) 
> 
> **ASoIaF KinkMeme:** This fan fiction was inspired by a bunch of prompts left in the kink meme. I haven’t been keeping tracking of them, unfortunately, so I couldn’t write this exactly to the prompters’ tastes, but I do know more than one person wanted to see Theon raised by the Boltons! (I also vaguely remember a Roose/Theon spanking prompt hmnn) This took a life of its own, so I’m not recording it as a fill, but enjoy =D!
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings:** I hope it goes without saying that this fan fiction is creepy to the max. Theon suffers from severe Stockholm Syndrome, and I don’t agree with his views - nor Roose Bolton’s, obviously. There are some very explicit mentions of torture and gore, which I’ll deliberately blame my parents for because the subject interests me ever since they took me to the Rothenburg Kriminalmuseum when I was ten (what a great place for kids). There’s a lot of difference between Ramsay’s uncontrolled rage and the careful, deliberate torture inflicted on others by someone experienced like Roose, and I’ve gone through painstakingly ways to show it…

Theon had his hands up Myranda’s skirts when Skinner showed up.

He wouldn’t have minded it; Myranda, even less. While the Dreadfort was hardly silent, with its shuddering gasps and all that wailing coming from downstairs, it was often cramped, and no amount of screaming could hide a couple going on their business, even if it did hide their own whimpered moans. Lord Bolton was of mind that these sort of activities should be left for brothels only - or a private bed, if you were lucky enough to share it with your legitimate wife - but Lord Bolton was, more often than not, hiding away in his room, being more intimate with his leeches than with his wife, to mind anybody else’s business.

“What do you want?” Myranda’s eyes shot up, not bothering to let go of her skirts. She had them wrapped around her waist and tucked inside the belt, leaving her legs in full display. Theon hadn’t been her first, nor would he be her last. Skinner had been probably there before, if Theon had to be honest with himself, but he wouldn’t go placing his dick nowhere near her cunt again if he thought too much about that. 

He pulled his fingers hastily, earning a grunt in response when he wiped them clean in Myranda’s own skirt. Skinner twisted his face in scorn.

“Lord Bolton sends for you.” 

Theon smiled unpleasantly, hoping it’d go unseen that all the blood rushed away from his cock and he went limp. Myranda had japed about his dick flopping like a fish once, but that was before he’d took her. He’d been young and stupid, and too scared of what Lord Bolton might’ve said, but Myranda laughed with Violet when she thought he wasn’t listening. She’d stolen sly glances and curved her lips in mockery. 

He’d claimed that red mouth from hers as well, so the joke was on her now. 

That didn’t seem to stop his palms from sweating.

“Does he, now? What does my lord want? Let me guess, a good leeching? That’s what happens when you won’t get a proper sucking from your wife. Learn this, Myranda. Or I might end up trading you for leeches myself.”

Myranda and Skinner didn’t laugh.

It was okay, he reasoned. No one in the Dreadfort seemed to laugh much, but for when they laughed at him. Lord Bolton’s ward. His father didn’t want him, Ned Stark didn’t want him. He’d his uses, aye, to be kept well fed and pretty until his father decided to rebel. Stark would’ve just cut his head off and be done with it, but Theon Greyjoy had spent too much time down the Dreadfort’s dungeons not to know what Lord Bolton did to his prisoners, even if he wasn’t the one on the other end of a flaying knife. 

Watch, learn, and be quiet, Lord Bolton told him. I already have the cries of my other hostages to deal with.

The man itched for the day Balon Greyjoy would rebel, if only to shorten Theon of his tongue.

Theon shrugged, leaving Skinner to finish his job. Myranda was already giggling when he turned his back to them, wrapping her legs around Skinner, but a slap sliced through the air and Theon heard nothing else as he made his way out of the kitchens. Lord Bolton was sure to scold him for the tardiness, in any case, so he made the climb up the stairs unbearably slowly, accounting for every step where he’d fallen when small, when sparring with Domeric, and catching his breath near the windows. They were but narrow slits, yet the cold crept inside nonetheless. On the walls, thick tapestries told the Bolton history in gory detail - that they’d been made with human hair certainly must’ve added to such effect - and the fireplace was ever well fed. Still…

Shuddering, Theon pulled his cloak closer and hastened his steps, least he froze before obeying whatever order Lord Bolton had for him today. Theon found it in his best interest not to complain that he was treated more like a servant than a valued hostage. Lord Bolton liked him useful. That certainly would earn him a kindness when the time came to off with his head… Or so he hoped. 

There wasn’t an ounce of mercy in Roose Bolton. There were rules, though. “Serve and obey” became more tolerable when he’d already been beaten bloody for being born last in line, and the only one to inherit his mother’s looks. People scoffed at him for taunting the Lord of the Dreadfort, but when Lord Bolton punished him - and Lord Bolton punished him more often than not, these days, after Domeric grew too busy in Barrowton to send letters and Lady Bethany’s illness confined her to bed - Theon always knew it was coming. Always knew why.

 It wasn’t gratitude that swelled in his chest, but if he’d to take it in account, Lord Bolton was a lot more reasonable than the men of Pyke. It wasn’t the flayed man of the House that made Theon halt by his door, before gathering up enough courage to knock. He counted his wrongdoings on fingertips and tried to figure out what he’d pay for next. 

“You called, my lord?” 

Lord Bolton sat across the room, his gaze fixated on the yard beneath his windows. Snow poured heavily outside. There was nothing to be seen besides the twisted branches of dead trees and the unending white, as there had been nothing to be seen on the year before, and on the previous to that one. The clouds must’ve taken a ridiculously interesting shape, Theon reckoned, to demand of the Leech Lord more attention than his hostage did. He waited for what it felt like hours until Lord Bolton mentioned, casually, without directing his glance at him: 

“It’s been called to my attention,” he started, pausing for some added effect that worked very well in anyone else that wasn’t Theon Greyjoy. “That you’ve been tumbling with some of the servingwomen.” 

Theon gasped.

“I’m throughly shocked at the news.”

The sarcasm merited him a look. Lord Bolton finally turned away from the window, splaying his fingers as he directed Theon a blank stare. The Lord of the Dreadfort rarely betrayed his intentions, but it was a nice change from the contempt Theon was usually met with, and it wasn’t as if Theon didn’t know what was coming anyway. Roose Bolton either ignored you or tormented you. The welts he got on his rear for his improper behavior never quite faded… But neither did the bruises he earned from Rodrik and Maron, at ten. When he first arrived at the Dreadfort, Lord Bolton had inspected him like a man inspected a horse. Theon didn’t know if it had been his first impression back then - or if it had been the words spoken in hushed tones to make him grow wary of his lord - only that, at nine-and-ten, he suspected the look in Lord Bolton’s face had been one of appraisal at the broken patches of skin.

 _He'd thought his family taught him well,_ Theon smirked. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I won’t have a bastard running around.” Roose Bolton said, as if he didn’t have a bastard of his own. Theon had to bit his tongue before it slipped past his lips that, unlike his wise lord, he always came on their bellies or thighs. It wasn’t an ache for punishment, and neither did he enjoy pain nor Lord Bolton’s attention. But Theon couldn’t help it sometimes, making situations worse. He could only think of the day he’d end up nailed to a cross. When that day came, he’d like to have earned it.

“Such activities are best left to do with a noblewoman that is yours by right.”

“Well, the way it stands, I don’t have a lady wife.”

“If you insist on consorting with peasants, it’d do you good to at least have them drink moon tea.” 

“Will do.”

“You will _not,_ ” Lord Bolton insisted. “As long as you live under my rule, you are forbidden from bedding any woman you please like an animal.”

“What should I do, then? Lay with men?” He scoffed.

“If you wish. When a woman comes with a babe on her arms, claiming you fathered her child, what will you do? Throw them down a well?”

“I would not!”

“Then I will for you.”

At times, Theon was reminded of when he stood by his lord down the cells. He passed him knives and learnt names, foreign tools being explained to him in excruciating detail as Theon learnt his way across the rack or the scavenger’s daughter… Though Theon was sure it’d been harder on the poor things laying there than on himself. The coldness in Roose Bolton’s eyes was sharper than a blade. Theon let his head down and prayed that he didn’t mean it, about tossing a kid down a well. 

(Thought he knew he would.)

With Theon subdued, Lord Bolton ceased his explanations. 

“Undress.”

Time for punishment at least, though it hadn’t been a full week since Lord Bolton last whipped him, and his ass was still bloody red. Theon unclasped his cloak and shrugged it off, taking his time to disrobe until he was left shivering in nothing but his undershirt. The gusting wind of he Iron Islands blowed to twist sails and crush boats against rock, but in the North the cold _bit_. In his first year in the Dreadfort, Lord Bolton had him accompany a prisoner to be bathed on the outside, and the man lost his nose and both of his toes. Theon learnt that lesson well enough, and never went out without at least three pairs of socks.

The solid stone foundation should have kept Winter outside, but if Lord Bolton was a strange man, the Dreadfort was a stranger place. Theon knew it in his bones, as if his skin had already been breeched open and what laid beneath was exposed to the frost. The Dreadfort peeled you from whichever layer of muscle and meat protected your insides. Not the tender flesh of your inner organs; that was too simple for a man like Lord Bolton, that was for a flaying knife to cut. The Dreadfort made you lie bare the way you were. It stripped your self away carefully before carving you into something else.

With his teeth chattering and the cold creeping underneath his chemise, Theon found it hard to care for anything else. 

“Place your hands on the table.”

“Honestly, one would think I have already learnt by now-“ _That I have to put my fucking hands on that fucking table else I’m going to fall down._

Lord Bolton finished his sentence for him before he could position himself.

“-how to control your tongue.”  

“This I’ll never learn, my lord.” Theon replied. “Just to make it sweeter on you, when the time comes for you to rid me of it.” 

“We’ll see.” 

Theon would tell himself that Lord Bolton appreciated his japes, if only a little, as his life wasn’t as miserable as it could’ve been. He owned sturdy boots and warm clothes, ate at the table with his lord, bedded whomever he wanted to. He’d even been raised and trained with Lord Bolton’s true born son, before Domeric had to be sent away. Theon could ride and hunt if he pleased, as long as he attended to his duties, and was, otherwise, not bothered very much, except for those occasional visits when Lord Bolton would list all of his wrongdoings and demand compensation in form of a sore ass.

It was likely that Lord Bolton only had to attend to matters more pressing than Theon Greyjoy. The prisoners wouldn’t flay themselves, after all.

“How many swats, my lord?” 

“Twenty.”

 Twenty was- It was surprisingly reasonable. 

“Do you know what are you being punished for?”

“Ah… The maid, and Myranda.“

“And…?" 

“And the kitchen girl. The cook’s new helper.” He added with heavy conscience. He couldn’t see Lord Bolton’s face, his own being lowered and hidden behind a curtain of hair, but Lord Bolton always knew. He stopped pacing around the room, and Theon drew his breath short.

“There are more than I thought.” Lord Bolton sighed. Theon knew better than to say anything then. “No. The lashes will be for speaking out of turn.”

Great. That meant more later, for the girls. Or maybe he’d send the new girl back home, or would have Theon flay h-

He stopped in his tracks. No. Lord Bolton was not a cruel man. Certainly, he wasn’t nice, or fair, or particularly good. But there was this truth, Theon though, mind reeling back to his nuncles and brothers, that some men enjoyed what they inflicted upon others. Maron would smile when kicking him in the head. Lord Bolton, instead, would skin a pleading woman alive and keep that blank face of his, as if he’d been peeling fruit. Theon didn’t know which was worse, but it couldn’t be Lord Bolton, couldn’t be - it wasn’t cruelty when you didn’t find enjoyment in it, and if he’d to end up dying anyways, Lord Bolton would make it a job, when his family would’ve made it a joke.

His shudder didn’t go unnoticed. After deliberating, Lord Bolton abandoned the paddle he’d chosen in favor of a rod.

Theon whitened. The switch had been clear cut and clean of any protrusions. Roose Bolton weighted it against one hand, swatting the air to test for flexibility, and found none. It cut a clear path without whiplash. Theon couldn’t help it, the admiration blooming beneath the building up of his fear. The man owned more blades than a kitchen staff, yet he wielded a sharp stick better than a lesser man would wield a dagger.

“M-my lord, I suppose a belt-“ He’d gratefully accept another hundred welts if they were made with the soft leather skin of Lord Bolton’s belt. 

“Thirty.”

 _Have you forgotten my father would still like me whole?_   He didn’t want any more swats added to count, though, and Lord Bolton was likely to add twenty more - ten for speaking up to him, ten for lying. Of all things one could say of Roose Bolton - from the unspeakable things that went on the Dreadfort’s dungeons to his love of leeching - there was nothing truest, and nothing Theon had ever listened to, in the sense of him being, also, a teacher. Alright, maybe he was a darn terrible teacher, as Theon never learnt how to keep his mouth shut and his words to himself, something his father might have managed that if he wasn’t overtly font of stupid rebellions (“A Greyjoy through and through”, Domeric said to him once, his smile indecipherable). But Theon bet no one at Pyke or at the fourteen seas knew the difference between a whip and a switch like him, or how bending over made your muscles tighten, made the swats sting harder and the skin break. His nuncles could boast all they wanted about the different ways they’d killed people; Theon Greyjoy met Roose Bolton, and knew best.

The first strike came down on him before he could process it.

It jolted him into awareness, forced his body to tense up in waiting for the second blow. Theon braced himself but it did not come - not until he relaxed, a fraction of second after he slouched his back. Lord Bolton measured the moment with precision and hit the same spot twice, in sequence, and Theon curled his fingers against the table, and knew he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. 

“I’m just warming up, Theon.”  Lord Bolton said, forcing Theon to let go of the breath he was still holding. The moment he exhale his body shook, but it was _nothing_ , nothing but three swats with a rod, he could take more. Hell, he’d been swung a sword at. His practice at the hands of the Master at Arms of the Dreadfort hurt more than a _spanking_. He wasn’t ten anymore. Lord Bolton was right - and nothing made Roose Bolton seem more right than when he had a weapon in his hand and was lashing out at him. - He was just warming up, delivering harmless blows to his skin, here and there, making Theon hiss at the sharp stings, preparing him for what was to come. He was measuring his strength, Theon knew, and the knowledge came easily enough to him because he’d been met with the strength of Lord Bolton’s full force, and had been taught to recognize when to save your strength and when to deliver it. Lord Bolton distributed the swats equally along the stretch of muscle of his bare buttocks until he was feverish, his body slick with sweat despite the cold that threatened to overwhelm him. 

There was no blood, at least, not until the tenth strike. It sliced through his skin, as easily as if Lord Bolton had been using a knife.

Theon clenched his teeth together, but he whimpered nonetheless, going very, very still. 

Lord Bolton let it pass. Theon was so very glad for the switching. To think he could be downstairs, in the depths of the Dreadfort’s guts, screaming to nobody else who cared. Gratitude was something Theon learnt very well.

There was no way to stop himself from grunting when the next blow came, nor the next. His entire body shook forwards with the strength Lord Bolton slashed across his skin. He’d to place a hand against the small of Theon’s back, to stop him from moving, but the parting of his legs and the pushing against the table were instinctive in an attempt to spread out the lashes - so when another swat came (and Theon couldn’t count, not anymore), it landed in Theon’s inner thigh.

Somebody down the dungeons wailed in anguish, rendering Theon terse with anticipation. He wanted to be still, but a tremor rolled down his body so fiercely he wasn’t able to, and it took another swat for him to realize he’d been sobbing, that the scream had forced its way out of his throat as soon as Lord Bolton’s switch landed on his thighs, tearing open a strip of red near the sensitive skin of his balls. 

(He’d skinned a girl once, at four-and-ten. Lord Bolton had insisted. She wasn’t a pretty thing; the flaying didn’t make her any prettier. She’d been missing most of her teeth when Lord Bolton was done and passed her over to him for trying. Theon’s hand trembled so much the line he carved into her stomach became brutally jagged. The blade slid in too deep and her innards spilled forwards, ruining Theon’s new gloves. Lord Bolton had beaten his hands bloody for that, and for the sobbing and the retching afterwards, but the pain couldn’t compare. It was blinding and white, and for a split second he thought he’d pass out, but it was _immediate_ , even if it left him panting and his eyes raw. The girl, though. She had festered inside him like a nightmare.)  

“Are you counting?” 

“Fif-fifteen?” he gasped.

(Lord Bolton’s look of disgust afterwards was still imprinted into his memory, and he’d bite his tongue to keep silent, if it meant not being faced with the same look anymore. Luckily for him, he couldn’t face the man now, not with his lips pressed up so close against the table they could as well be old lovers.)

Lord Bolton halted. The hesitation made Theon slobber out the answer faster than his tongue could catch up with the words of his false assumption.

“Fourten, my lord. Fourteen, I-“

_Swat._

The agony was blinding. It clawed at his chest and pounded on the back of his eyes, searing upon him with every blow. It crashed against him like a storm at the sea, like waves upon rock, biting and carving the stone underneath. Just as it came, it went; the pain cut short by brief moments of respite as Lord Bolton dragged on the punishment well past the point where his body would trash on its own accord. It’d get easier to take it, to lie there with his skin exposed and not flinch. Just… breathe through the hurt every time the switch slashed against his thighs and buttocks. _Breathe_. First lesson, breathe, and accept it, and withstand it because Lord Bolton knew his body better than Theon knew it himself. Once Theon stopped fighting, it became easier on his lord too, to hold him, and cut through skin where the pain could be heightened without Theon fainting or injuring himself beyond treatment. Roose Bolton stripped the resistance out of him layer by layer, so that Theon was raw and aching by the time Lord Bolton was done with him, but he was still whole, not broken like the things he’d witnessed downstairs - and it was mercy. The little Lord Bolton afforded, anyway. 

His lips were wet with tears. _Saltwater,_ Theon though, _This must be what home feels like_.

There was no sound but that of his haggard breathing. He thought he could hear the ring of his blood rushing downwards, pushing past the barrier of his skin to bloom in his thighs. His heart working hard for it. 

Roose Bolton, though, was full of silence. 

Theon willed his legs to move but they were disobedient. _“A common trait in your family, I imagine.”_ Domeric breathed against his ear. He burst with laughter. It sent ripples down Theon’s spine, it made his knees shake uncontrollably as he grasped for purchase before cold hands laid on his back. Domeric always found joy in the fact that, no matter the effort his Lord Father put into it, Theon became no Bolton. 

(It’d been… It’d been a game, at first. His first misdemeanors. He was young and slow, and it took him months - _months!_ \- to realize Domeric would edge him on because Domeric would never earn a single bruise for speaking out of turn. For making the chamber maids trip down the stairs. And he’d known all the time, too. Both of them. Domeric’s ideas, and Lord Bolton had just stared hard at him and said “Yes, I know.” with those cold eyes of his. Theon got punished all the same. Eventually, he grew smart enough - or dumb enough - that he’d no longer be Domeric’s whipping boy, but only his own.)

Something wet dripped down his legs. He flinched immediately - the blows had stopped, _god_ , _don’t let it be another, I cannot take it anymore_ \- the contraction of his muscles making his body ache tenfold. Theon was afraid he’d unfold like a rope, falling to the floor once he’d been cut. Yet the next hit never came. It was- It wasn’t blood; not thin enough, not warm enough. It stung as it slid past his wounds. Against his back, Lord Bolton secured him tightly against the table. Theon couldn’t stop his limbs from shaking any more than he could willingly stop his heart from beating. 

“Be still.”

Lord Bolton’s oily hands pressed against his skin. He… _He wasn’t wearing any gloves_ , Theon flushed, and they felt like salt kneading against the gashes left on his ass. They smelt of summer leaves, and once the initial pain was gone (and the pain _was_ gone, Theon was surprised to realize, though a rougher pinch would bring it all rolling in waves over him), the sensation left was fairly pleasant, rubbing away the burnt of his skin to leave a soothing numbness. Lord Bolton’s thumbs dug into his hips, massaging the skin there in circles before pressing down, lower, reaching up to the folds and creases of his skin where the switch cut deeper. Theon shuddered and spread his legs further, and was almost dozing off when Roose Bolton pushed a finger inside him, right up to his knuckle, so deep Theon couldn’t suppress a groan.

“What…?” He asked. He thought he’d asked, anyway. His mouth would not move unless he put all his strength to it, and Theon didn’t think he’d done it. The wooden table was mercifully cool against his forehead. His entire body ached in exhaustion; he could as well have imagined it. Theon didn’t have it in him to question anymore, not when his body had already done his share of resistance, and yielding wasn’t all that difficult when he didn’t get hurt for it. Lord Bolton’s insistent weight pressed against him, but it all seemed to happen far away, to a different person.  

(It’d be nice, not to be Theon Greyjoy for a while).

His mind felt oddly empty. 

“‘tsa punishment?” His head lolled to the side. Part of him struggled to understand (punishment wasn’t supposed to feel… not _bad_ , and Lord Bolton wasn’t the type of man you’d outlive if you wouldn’t understand the way his mind worked), but the other part, the one who made him corner Myranda, _that_ part just wanted to roll his hips a little. Desire stirred in the pit of his stomach, forcing him to stifle a gasp by biting his lips.

“It’s a lesson.” 

 _Not a very good one, then._ Theon pushed the muscles of his back into cumbersome work so he could look behind, vision still blurry, and just take a peek - because he wanted to see, didn’t he? Theon always sought to do what he wasn’t supposed to (and forcing his body upwards with shivering hands had to hurt, gnawing at his wounds, yet the pain felt almost like bliss). Lord Bolton was diligent as always. Theon could’ve imagined something heated about his gaze. Some red on the cheeks, a twisted upper lip. It’d have made Theon feel better, despite the tightness of his stomach and the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him because it wasn’t bad - for Lord Bolton to make a _woman_ out of him - it wasn’t nowhere near as bad as the thrashing, and all he could do was meet his lord’s thrusts with his hips.

He could curl his toes or have a panic attack; Lord Bolton would react all the same. Except he was pushing harder into him, joining a second finger and twisting them ever just so, making Theon feel more inclined to moan than cry. Or maybe both - Theon wouldn’t know. He wished… If Lord Bolton would just look back at him, it wouldn’t be half as shaming. But there wasn’t lust anywhere near his eyes when he reduced Theon to a mumbling mess, and he could just come all over the table and the only thing Lord Bolton would probably do was to complain about the ruined paperwork. And he was almost there, fuck, if only he managed to reach down-

“Theon,” Lord Bolton warned him. Theon whined pitifully, teeth showing. He let go of his arms to shove his face in between them. If Lord Bolton ever saw the blood rising to his cheeks… 

(He thought back to the only meeting he was allowed into. Although Domeric sat by his father side, Theon had been asked to stay on his feet, closer to the servants than to the men who’d sworn fealty to the houses of the North. He didn’t have to ask _why_. Eddard Stark had been there. Once they’d started to discuss what was to be done with him - as if Theon was part of a much larger game he wasn’t allowed to play - Roose Bolton had taken upon himself to solve the issue. Theon remembered feeling grateful for it. Someone wanted him. It filled him with euphoria - the same euphoria bubbling up to his throat now, threatening to choke him. Only now he should’ve known better. He’d been a stupid little runt back then. Theon had all but run to the table before being held back by someone, who saved him the shame of throwing himself into Roose Bolton’s arms before the man turned to him and said “Greyjoys are treasonous whores. Allow me to take care of this matter for you.”)

“Please,” he begged. Lord Bolton had been right all along. “ _Please._ ”

“Very well.”

A large hand closed around his neck and robbed him of breath. Theon gasped and tried to reach for it - _oh, god, he’s going to kill me_ \- but Lord Bolton only pulled him back by his throat, his body slack, as if he’d been a doll. His legs were lead still, and no matter how much he tried to stretch them, his toes barely made it to the floor. It was a game of balance and he lost, knocking over the chair as he scrambled to get free, feet dangling above the ground. It didn’t anger Roose Bolton, but it did make him tug harder. The movement was so sharp Theon feared his neck would snap.

He couldn’t breathe. Theon worked desperately to try and get some air, chest heaving up and down, but all he could feel was the roughspun of Lord Bolton’s doublet scratching his back. The x-shaped belt buckle jabbed into one of his welts and tore a silent scream out of him, but Lord Bolton only held him closer, and Theon felt like suffocating.

“I need you to hold still.” Easier said than done. Roose Bolton’s stubble bruised his neck, and his breath smelt of mulled cloves and Arbor Red. Theon inclined his head just so. 

“Pl-“ Theon gagged. He wanted to howl but the cry was strangled by the crook of his neck. “Please.”

But Bolton worked to ease him, scissoring his fingers inside him and stretching his body until he could feel every muscle in the verge of distention. His woolen shirt rode up and rubbed everywhere he couldn’t touch, his skin sensitive after the bruising, the lack of oxygen turning his thoughts into mush. Theon dug his fingers into his lord’s arm and struggled to hate it, but all he could do to keep himself from coming was biting the edge of his lip until he drew blood, until it filled his mouth with the taste of iron. Lord Bolton abandoned his neck to clap his hand above his lips, stopping him from chewing on his tongue, but Theon bit him instead. He came -harder than he could ever remember - his teeth and mouth latched on Roose Bolton’s finger, until the bite became a moan and he suckled on it in an effort to drag the orgasm, his body moving on its own accord before Theon could regain control of it. 

Not that it mattered much. Once he stopped panting, he’d still be Lord Bolton’s ward, for his lord to do with him as he pleased.

The blood painted his lips red once Roose Bolton let go of him - though not entirely, as the man had to enlace him by the waist unless he wished Theon to stumble forward. Theon wasn’t entirely sure Lord Bolton cared, but he was thankful enough for small favors as not to question them. He fought the urge to just press his head against Lord Bolton’s chest and rest there, falling into the temptation of allowing his eyes to flutter, but the position wasn’t warm nor comfortable, and he’d just started to make note of the strain he’d put his body under. He hurt all over and there was just blood _everywhere_ …

Theon tore himself away from Lord Bolton’s grasp, overestimating his legs’ capacity to keep himself upright. His eyes widened at the mark left in his skin; his teeth had carved a gash into the man’s finger, an ugly semi-circle so red Theon couldn’t figure out if he’d bitten something off or not. Roose Bolton didn’t even look angry at it. He stared at the wound curiously and - much to Theon’s shock - almost … impressed. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“

“Get dressed. Have I made my point?”

“Yes, my lord.”

It’d be foolish for him to try Roose Bolton’s patience. It always was. He’d been so fucking stupid. A stupid little kid, and he hadn’t grown up the least. Theon rushed to gather his discarded clothes, ignoring the stains he’d left into his undershirt, the blood he’d cake his cloves with, before he managed to put every other piece of clothing. On the corner of his eye, Lord Bolton pulled back his own gloves, looking as imposing as ever.

Theon forced himself to stare at his own feet.

“I assume you won’t run to a woman’s bed now.”

“No, my lord.”

“Good. Once you do, though, remember this,” Lord Bolton’s voice was cut short by a snicker. The two of them knew fairly well it was only a matter of when, not if. Or maybe Bolton did, and Theon just… adapted to circumstances, he guessed. It was easy to play along with whatever men thought of him, not when they were unwilling to accept anything else. _Theon Greyjoy, treasonous whore._ Only now he was more of the later than the first. 

Lord Bolton stressed his words.

“Once you do,I’ll send Skinner for you. And he won’t be as gentle.” 

Theon stood still - as if standing still could spirit him away. His coat was a bundle between his arms. Roose Bolton had gone back to his desk, putting his bent chair back into position, the scattered papers now neatly organized. He didn’t even look back at him.

“What are you waiting for? Leave. And fix your clothes when you do.”

Whatever those papers were, they were more important than Theon Greyjoy. He slung his coat over his shoulders and left.


End file.
